90 DESCRIBED BY GRAHAME. 



High is his perch, but humble is his home, 



And well concealed. Sometimes within the sound 



Of heartsome mill-clacks, where the spacious door 



White-dusted, tells him plenty reigns around, 



Close at the root of brier-bush, that o'erhangs 



The narrow stream, with shealings bedded white, 



He fixes his abode, and lives at will. 



Oft near some single cottage, he prefers 



To rear his little home ; there, pert and spruce, 



He shares the refuse of the goodwife's churn, 



Which kindly on the wall for him she leaves : 



Below her lintel oft he lights, then in 



He boldly flits, and fluttering loads his bill, 



And to his young the yellow treasure bears. 



Not seldom does he neighbour the low roof 



Where tiny elves are taught : a pleasant spot 



It is, well fenced from winter blast, and screened 



By high o'er-spreading boughs from summer sun. 



Before the door a sloping green extends 



No farther than the neighbouring cottage-hedge, 



Beneath whose boutree shade a little well 



Is scooped, so limpid, that its guardian trout 



(The wonder of the lesser stooping wights) 



Is at the bottom seen. At noontide hour, 



The imprisoned throng, enlarged, blithesome rush forth 



To sport the happy interval away ; 



While those from distance come, upon the sward, 



At random seated, loose their little stores ; ^ 



In midst of them poor Kedbreast hops unharmed, 



For they have read, or heard, and wept to hear, 



The story of the Children in the Wood ; 



And many a crumb to Robin they will throw. 



Others there are that love, on shady banks 



Retired, to pass the summer days : their song, 



Among the birchen boughs, with sweetest fall, 



Is warbled, pausing, then resumed more sweet, 



More sad; that, to an ear grown fanciful, 



The babes, the wood, the man, rise in review, 



And Robin still repeats the tragic line. 



But should the note of flute, or human voice, 



Sound through the grove, the madrigal at once 



Ceases ; the warbler flits from branch to branch, 



And, stooping, sidelong turns his listening head. 



Long as this extract is, we are strongly tempted to pass 

 on from the leafy spring-time to the bare desolate winter, 

 and continue the description of the Scottish poet 



